grief

It’s so quiet in here

I’ve been absent from my writing practice for a long time. And, as we know, the longer you step away from something the harder it is to step back in.

I stepped away for so long that I barely remember the woman who used to write regularly — the one who wrote from a place of pain and loneliness, of uncertainty and confusion. Writing when you’re lonely is easy, because you’re writing to connect. You’re throwing your words into the world in hopes that someone else will read them, and feel seen and understood.

It’s why so many songs are written about heartbreak. It’s why so many books have tragic turning points and underdogs. It’s why Taylor Swift has a catalogue, and it’s why country music exists.

Writing when you’re happy? Writing when you’re healthy? Writing when you have mental clarity, are securely attached with rich friendships, a good job, and well-adjusted children?

Not only is that boring, it also seems boastful. Barf. Shut up, already.

Our appetite for disaster

Scrolling on Instagram the other night, I laughed as a content-creator mom detailed her social media wish list this holiday season: Keep your matching jammies and picture-perfect cookie-decorating reels, she said. Give us your disasters – nobody wants your curated Christmas perfection.

Folks love a good disaster. As much as we say we want good news, I worked in the news business long enough to know that we don’t, really.

People want to watch us fail more than they want to see us succeed. And they want reassurance that that same disaster isn’t about to overtake them.

So I detailed my disaster. I shared my mess. And then the storm passed and I spent years quietly sweeping up debris and replacing broken windows.

Now my life is tidy, quiet and boring.

Naming the grief

It turns out that while I was sweeping up, I was grieving, and it’s only lately that I’ve given myself permission to use that word.

It felt indulgent to call what I went through ‘grief.’ Nobody died. I have friends who lost their husbands forever; mine decided he wanted someone else, and now they live just down the road.

But it was grief. I grieved the life I thought I would have and the future I worked so hard for. I grieved the childhood my children wouldn’t get, the holidays and celebrations that were simple and are now complicated. And as much as I hate to admit it, I also grieved the loss of what had been at one point, my closest friend.

A story still worth telling

The other day, while out walking the dog and looking for a new podcast for my journey, Oprah’s name popped up. Her podcast was about the rise of the ‘grey divorce,’ the term given to those who divorce after the age of 50. The subjects being interviewed were mostly women. Some had initiated the divorce, while others were blindsided.

The episode reminded me that I still have a story to tell and connections to make. That I remain a writer, even when my keyboard collects dust; even when I’m quiet.

The words are still there, and lately they’ve been bubbling up, putting lumps in my throat that a cough simply won’t clear.

I was reminded that even if there’s a greater appetite for stories of heartbreak and disaster, there are still those who might wish to read about the boring bits. About remembering who you are when you come up for air. About the depth of friendships, about parenting teenagers who have a complicated relationship with their dad, and about accidentally falling in love again when you have every reason to steer clear.

And even if there is no audience, that’s no reason to sit on my hands.

I have a story to tell.

When grieving the end of a marriage people tell you that the evenings will be the hardest part, but that’s not true. Not for me, anyway.

When you’re a parent, mornings rage in like thunderstorms, startling you from sleep and smashing you over the head with needs, wants, demands and expectations. Mornings are noisy and frantic. Despite how prepared you feel the night before, each morning brings with it its own new catastrophe. Someone lost something. Someone forgot a spirit day. Someone finished the last of the favourite cereal. All of the favorite lunchbox treats are gone. There are seeds in the bread.

At the end of my marriage I expected to feel at lose ends in the evenings. But, as is often the case in life, reality serves up unexpected hurt, and for me (even a year later) that hurt comes in the morning.

Let’s just make it to bedtime without killing each other

Since becoming a parent, the evenings have always been my goal posts. Children are fed and bathed. Whatever happened that day, good or bad, is behind you and the next day brings a fresh new blank page. The little arguments we had have been resolved – or they haven’t – but either way those children are safe and softly snoring, and even if you didn’t earn a gold star for the day, you at least get a checkmark. You may not have exceeded expectations, but dammit, you met them.

Evenings have a charm and a lightness. The quiet of evenings has a peaceful quality to it. The sofa is softer because you know that you can sit for more than a moment. The tea tastes better because you know you’ll be able to drink it while it’s still hot. TV is funnier and more entertaining, complete with sex and swearwords.

I expected that the evenings would be the hardest because of the dark, but it’s the bright light of morning that takes my breath away.

The sound of silence

Every other week I languish in the mornings. I lay in bed and listen to the silence for a moment and I find no pleasure in it. I yearn for the chaos that I always thought I hated and now crave.

I’ve never not had a human to wake up to – whether it was a partner rolling toward me with a stretch and a groan, or a child with his knees shooting daggers into my back. I’ve also always had a morning soundtrack: A television, an argument, cupboards and drawers opening and closing, and of course the sound of that epic morning pee and subsequent (if I’m lucky) flush.

So often these days, I wake up to silence, and now (thanks to the pandemic), I shuffle into work in silence. I don’t greet the neighbour as I get into my car because working from home I have nowhere to go.

Hey. How you doin’?

But not so long ago I rolled over in bed, grabbed my phone and spotted a text that had been sent five minutes earlier, which read simply: “Good morning!”

That was all. That was it.

The “good morning!” asked for nothing. What it gave, however, was a reminder that just because it sounds as if I’m alone, I’m not.

It reminded me that I’m not the only one living so quietly these days, and that this pandemic solitude can be breached through intentional and thoughtful connection.

In other words, good mornings are now on the menu. When you receive a “good morning” from me, here’s what it means:

I care about you. I’m thinking about you. I am happy because I know you. I am grateful that you are in my life. It is a privilege to be your friend, your mom, your lover, your daughter, or your colleague.

And what I realized also is that good mornings don’t have to be quite so explicit. Maybe they’re just a funny meme, or a news story that you read that relates to a conversation you just had. Maybe a “good morning” is just a gif, a joke you heard, or maybe it’s an in depth retelling of a super weird dream.

That’s all. And that’s so much.

I can’t always hear the folks who love me, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t there.

So, good morning, beautiful.

Tag: grief

Rediscovering Your Voice After a Long Pause